God Of football - Chapter 617: Before The Pitch

Chapter 617: Before The Pitch

“Right—let’s not dance around it,” began Damian Fletcher, shifting in his chair.

“Arsenal vs. City. A headliner of a match in all but name. And the big question… where was Izan Hernandez yesterday?”

The camera cut wide.

The studio desk glowed blue under the set lights, the skyline of London in the backdrop while opposite Fletcher, sat Karen Carney and Joleon Lescott, both already leaning forward.

“Not seen at Colney, not in group drills,” Carney said.

“Rumours ran wild all of yesterday. But pictures out this morning show him back—smashing volleys and looking sharp which has shut down the rumours as quickly as they came.”

“So what was it?” Lescott asked, half-laughing.

“Fatigue? Knock? Personal day?”

Fletcher shrugged.

“Arteta gave no comment. Arsenal haven’t issued a statement.”

“Which is why it’s our job to speculate,” Carney said dryly.

Th𝘪𝗌 𝘤h𝒶p𝖙𝗲r 𝗶𝑠 p𝘰𝕤𝓉𝖾ⅾ b𝘺 𝒦𝙞τ𝕖𝕟𝕠𝐯ℯ𝗅

The screen flashed with a still of Izan at today’s session—striking a ball from distance, arms spread in mid-turn.

Sharp and focused with nothing in particular looking off.

“Look at that,” Lescott said.

“You don’t hit through a ball like that if something’s off. He looks angry.”

“Angry? I don’t think so but ’tuned in’ might be the phrase you are searching for,” Fletcher added.

“And let’s not forget—he knows City. He scored a brace against them back in September. .”

“And now he has to crack it again,” Carney said.

“Because that’s the real task. Haaland’s fresh. KDB’s got his legs back and Foden’s not really having a great season but the threat is there. And Pep’s not losing sleep.”

The graphic changed again—Key Players: Izan Hernandez vs Kevin De Bruyne (midfield influence battle).

“It’s not even close between the two players this season but this is where the game is decided,” Carney continued.

“Not just up front. It’s the transitions. The spaces between the lines. That’s where Izan lives.”

Lescott leaned back slightly.

“Think they’ll man-mark him?”

“Doesn’t work,” Carney said.

“Valencia tried that. So did a few before that. You’d just create space for the rest of the front line and Izan isn’t necessarily going to let that slide. Mind you he has 16 assists this season. You don’t stop players like him by boxing them in—you contain the pitch.”

“You contain the idea of him,” Fletcher corrected.

The three paused as a tension hung in the air.

“He’s back,” Carney said.

“And if today’s session is anything to go by… he’s not just fit.”

“He’s ready,” Lescott added.

……

The windows stretched from ceiling to floor, coated just faintly in the morning mist.

Down below, in clean rows of movement, Manchester City’s first team went through their rondos—controlled, methodical.

But to Pep Guardiola, it looked… anxious.

He watched them in silence, his elbows tucked with his chin resting lightly on one knuckle.

The grass below was perfect.

The passing was fast.

But something didn’t feel right.

“This is not it,” he muttered as his door clicked.

“Come.”

His assistant slipped in—no folder, just the iPad and a mug of coffee in hand, but what said more was the dark circle around his eyes.

Pep didn’t turn.

Just asked, low:

“Morale?”

“Low in the past couple of weeks but way better now. Players responded to the reset after the 6-0 win against Ipswich and then the 3-1 win against Chelsea.”

“They shouldn’t have needed one.”

He exhaled sharply, a sound not of anger, but disappointment.

“We don’t drop against Brentford. Not at home.”

A long pause.

“And without Rodri?” Pep added.

“We lose rhythm. Control fades and plays just become chaotic and unpredictable.”

He nodded and finally turned from the glass.

The assistant flicked open the tactical dashboard. Match: Arsenal. Two days out.

Heat maps, trends, projections.

No surprises.

Except one.

Pep stared at the floating predicted XI Arsenal might use.

“Izan,” Pep said quietly and then stepped away from the screen.

“We trained all season to break press lines and then he turns the press into his own.”

The assistant cleared his throat.

“What do we do, then?”

Pep looked up.

His voice, quiet but sharp:

“We don’t man-mark him. If we do, he turns our anchor into a ghost.”

“So what—zone with a second shadow?”

“No. That’s still a trap.”

He paused.

“The moment we turn his orbit into our pivot—he owns the match.”

He paced now, slowly, each step deliberate.

“If he starts playing with rhythm—real rhythm—forget the result. Forget possession.”

He stopped.

“He’ll make us look like we don’t know how to breathe.”

The room went still.

“So we stop him?” the assistant offered, but it was half-hearted.

“We can’t stop him,” Pep answered.

“We deny him tempo and try to minimize damage while doing damage of our own.”

“You think that’ll hold?”

Pep turned back to the window.

“If it doesn’t,” he said, voice almost inaudible, “this won’t be just a bad day.”

“It’ll be the night this squad remembers as the moment they saw a seventeen-year-old break everything we built.”

His assistant looked at him.

Pep didn’t blink.

“He won’t play a good game.”

“He’ll change the match’s definition.”

Outside, De Bruyne called for the ball.

Haaland checked his run and Doku shifted wider.

Pep didn’t watch them.

He was already seeing something else.

Something that might arrive in 24 hours, wearing Arsenal red.

And a number 10 and it wasn’t coming to play.

……..

[Hampstead]

Izan wiped the corner of his mouth, dropped the fork into the bowl, and pushed his chair back from the island.

Olivia was halfway through a piece of toast when he leaned down and kissed her—soft, quick, clean.

“Mm,” she muttered, chewing.

“You’re not brushing after that?”

“Protein shake and oats. I’m minty fresh.”

“Disgusting.”

He smirked, leaned over again and placed a kiss on Komi’s forehead.

She patted his arm in return and didn’t even pause her tea.

Then came Hori.

He swooped in and pressed a kiss on her cheek before she could react.

“Ugh! Ew! Don’t kiss me without warning!” she cried, rubbing her face furiously.

“I’m reporting you to—someone!”

“You’re in my house,” he said over his shoulder, already walking.

“That’s not how laws work!”

“I pay your Netflix.”

“That still doesn’t make you untouchable!”

But she was smiling as she said it, and Olivia just shook her head.

“We’ll be cheering you on,” Komi said while Izan just raised a hand to acknowledge it.

The walkway lit up as Izan stepped through it, floor sensors triggering with soft pulses under each stride.

The garage doors pulled back with a hiss, revealing the Gemera parked like a coiled beast waiting to be unleashed.

He tapped his duffel bag onto the front seat, slid in, and started the engine as the car growled to life,

Hampstead woke up around him as the sleek hypercar cut through the narrow lanes like a spaceship from a different reality.

Even on a normal morning, the Gemera turned heads—today, it was getting nods, phone cameras, and waves.

One man in a delivery van nearly stalled trying to keep up with a glance.

At Colney, security waved him through like usual.

As he parked near the player entrance, the rumble of another car approached behind—then another.

Saka’s SUV rolled in, with Nwaneri in the passenger seat.

The door opened before the engine even cut.

“I will forever be jealous of that spaceship you call a car,” Saka said, walking up.

“Honestly,how’d you bag a Koenigsegg deal before hitting eighteen?”

“My performance, marketability and Miranda,” Izan answered, grabbing his bag from the seat.

“Man, I need to talk to her. You think if I switch agents now she’ll get me an Audi at least?”

“Only if you stop missing tap-ins.”

“Low blow.”

They started walking in together, boots in one hand, bags in the other.

“Wait,” Nwaneri cut in, looking at Izan. “How do you even insure that thing?”

“Don’t know mate. Just hoping someone doesn’t hit me because I’m sure I definitely won’t hit anyone.” Izan said with a shrug.

“That’s just terrifying to think about,” Saka said.

Izan just grinned as they stepped inside Colney’s main complex—calm, clean, bright—but underneath, the pressure was building.

…….

The Emirates trembled from the voice of Fifty-nine thousand throats, layered and rising, spilled into the night like smoke—loud, restless, living.

The chants collided, clashing against each other with slight Spanish blending into North London slang, terrace cries rolling down from the upper tiers and slamming into the dugouts below.

Scarves spun, fists pumped, banners shook with every word and up the gantry, the commentators began,

“Under the lights at the Emirates… two teams that don’t just play football—they define its direction.”

“Arsenal, young and relentless, riding the momentum of belief. Manchester City, experienced, clinical, wounded—but never quiet.”

“Arteta knows this ground better than anyone. But Guardiola knows how to take it apart.”

“Eyes will be on Haaland. On De Bruyne. On the system. But they’ll also be on the boy wearing number 10 in red. Because when the ball finds him, things tend to change.”

“These are the nights the Premier League lives for.”

“This is Arsenal. This is City. This… is the war behind the table.”

A/N: First of the day. Sorry for the late release, i had a lot of classes today. Have fun reading and I’ll see you after my last class which is in like 15 minutes. By and welcome to a new month.